Melissa’s couch is way too small for two people to stretch out on comfortably, but neither of you seems to mind. Your legs are tangled up somewhere beneath the blanket, her head is tucked under your chin, and the soft hum of the old TV fills the space between you. An old rom-com you both agreed to rewatch for the hundredth time is playing, though neither of you is paying much attention anymore.

Your ribs still ache a little from where you took that nasty fall during the second half of the game, and Melissa hasn’t stopped fussing about it since. She had practically dragged you into her house afterward, muttering something about “emotional support popcorn” and demanding you stay the night for “medical movie treatment.”

Now she’s curled into your side like she was always meant to fit there, her fingers toying with the hem of your jersey like it’s comforting her more than you. She keeps stealing glances at you, even when she thinks you’re not looking—just these soft, nervous little looks like she still can’t quite believe you’re really hers.

“Are you still hurting?” she mumbles suddenly, voice barely above a whisper.